I'm not going to have time to write my diary in the evenings for the next few days, thanks to The Boss and the local elections. Greg and I have just been ordered to help one of the candidates in his campaign to become a local councillor - in our supposedly free time, of course.
"If he'd just shave off that ridiculous twirly beard and sideburns combo, he wouldn't need any help on the doorstep," says Greg, but Andrew doesn't take any notice of that.
He's probably contemplating the creative possibilities offered by his own facial hair - when he's not fretting about LibDems getting creative with paper and ink.
Jen had promised to send me a letter she'd received last week from the LibDem to whom her MP lost his seat - which finally turns up in the post today. I'm so surprised when I see it that, like a fool, I email a scan of it to The Boss - who then goes up in metaphorical smoke.
"Christ, those LibDems know how to walk a fine line," he says, when he phones me to discuss the damn thing further. "Look at the colour of the paper, and the ink. The only thing missing is the bloody Commons crest."
For once, Andrew's right. The letter is within the rules, but it could very easily mislead. In it, the MP advises his constituents to vote for the various LibDem candidates at the local council elections in his constituency - as party political a message as can be - and which therefore mustn't be sent out on House of Commons headed paper.
Whenever The Boss wants to send anything similar to his constituents, we use the cheapest, plain white paper you can buy - which the Party has to pay for, of course, and not the taxpayer. It looks like shit, and doesn't really carry much clout at all.
However, Jen's new LibDem MP has found a cunning way to suggest that his suggestion of how to vote in the local elections has the official stamp of approval - which is why The Boss is blowing his top.
The letter is printed on cream paper which is exactly the same shade as the proper HOC* stuff, and the header is printed in green ink - also of the exact same shade as that used by the HOC. The lay-out of the MP's name and address is also the same, and the only thing missing is the Portcullis crest.
Now The Boss has decided that, if the LibDems should prove capable of similar campaign creativity in Northwick too, our candidates will need all the help they can get. Which apparently takes the form of me and Greg.
So, in the absence of a good barber with a way with twirly facial hair, that's the next few evenings spoken for - and all thanks to the new Green Ink Brigade. I can't wait for Friday night, and some time alone with Max - if he hasn't gone off and left me by then.
I wonder if you can cite jury service and local elections as grounds for divorce? Not to mention facial hair...
*HOC - House of Commons, as usual.
Showing posts with label Jury Service. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jury Service. Show all posts
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Friday, 29 April 2011
Things For Newly-Weds To Take Into Account, And Probably For Judges, Too.
"So, Molly," says Dad, when he phones first thing this morning. "Got the day off to watch the Royal Wedding, have you, then?"
"Yes," I say. "Though I haven't decided whether to watch it or not, actually."
"Oh, for God's sake, I thought you'd grown out of all that left-wing nonsense," says Dad.
Honestly, just because I - very occasionally - agree with a Tory by accident, that doesn't mean that I have become one, does it? And I've never watched any Royal Weddings - or none so far, anyway.
It's not as if I've got anything better to do today, though - unless a gold star might be on the horizon. Max is looking pretty bored this week, after all.
"There goes Will and Kate's sex-life," he says, watching the preparations on BBC One. "Married life starts today."
He makes it sound as if sex is forbidden once you tie the knot, which rather puts paid to the star-earning idea. I may as well go and sit in the garden for the rest of the day and smoke myself to death. Even though I'm pretty sure it's going to rain.
I still haven't got over how fantastic it is to be able to go for a cigarette on my own again - without having to persuade a bunch of militant non-smoking jurors to join me outside, regardless of the weather. (That's when you really begin to understand how it must feel to suffer from leprosy.)
Who knew that jurors aren't allowed to go anywhere without all the other jurors in tow, once they've retired to consider their verdict? I bloody well didn't, and nor did Dan, the only other smoker on one of the juries upon which I sat, during the living hell also known as jury service.
"So," I said, on the first day, when we were huddled together attempting to light our cigarettes in the driving rain, while trying to pretend that ten virtual strangers weren't glaring at us with utter loathing. "D'you think she's guilty, or innocent?"
"Dunno," said Dan. "Whatever the majority think, then that's the decision that I'll go with."
"You can't do that," I said. "You have to weigh the evidence and come to your own decision. There are people's lives at stake, you know."
"There's my sanity at stake, too," he said. "And it won't take much more of this to make me as mad as a hatter. I just want to finish jury service, and get back to my normal life - so I can have a bloody fag whenever I like. Without the chorus of disapproval over there."
He paused, and then stared at me in horror.
"I can't believe I just said that," he said. "Can you?"
"No," I said. "Well, yes, I can, actually. But, seriously, how many trials do you think are decided by this sort of thing? You know, by jurors' nicotine addiction? It's a bit worrying, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Dan. "Especially when you factor in alcoholics, as well. I'm sure that juror called Linda - the one who works in the Silverhill dry-cleaners - has a bottle in her bag."
I wonder how the sex-addicts cope? Not by getting married, that's for sure. Though what time does the Wedding start?
"Yes," I say. "Though I haven't decided whether to watch it or not, actually."
"Oh, for God's sake, I thought you'd grown out of all that left-wing nonsense," says Dad.
Honestly, just because I - very occasionally - agree with a Tory by accident, that doesn't mean that I have become one, does it? And I've never watched any Royal Weddings - or none so far, anyway.
It's not as if I've got anything better to do today, though - unless a gold star might be on the horizon. Max is looking pretty bored this week, after all.
"There goes Will and Kate's sex-life," he says, watching the preparations on BBC One. "Married life starts today."
He makes it sound as if sex is forbidden once you tie the knot, which rather puts paid to the star-earning idea. I may as well go and sit in the garden for the rest of the day and smoke myself to death. Even though I'm pretty sure it's going to rain.
I still haven't got over how fantastic it is to be able to go for a cigarette on my own again - without having to persuade a bunch of militant non-smoking jurors to join me outside, regardless of the weather. (That's when you really begin to understand how it must feel to suffer from leprosy.)
Who knew that jurors aren't allowed to go anywhere without all the other jurors in tow, once they've retired to consider their verdict? I bloody well didn't, and nor did Dan, the only other smoker on one of the juries upon which I sat, during the living hell also known as jury service.
"So," I said, on the first day, when we were huddled together attempting to light our cigarettes in the driving rain, while trying to pretend that ten virtual strangers weren't glaring at us with utter loathing. "D'you think she's guilty, or innocent?"
"Dunno," said Dan. "Whatever the majority think, then that's the decision that I'll go with."
"You can't do that," I said. "You have to weigh the evidence and come to your own decision. There are people's lives at stake, you know."
"There's my sanity at stake, too," he said. "And it won't take much more of this to make me as mad as a hatter. I just want to finish jury service, and get back to my normal life - so I can have a bloody fag whenever I like. Without the chorus of disapproval over there."
He paused, and then stared at me in horror.
"I can't believe I just said that," he said. "Can you?"
"No," I said. "Well, yes, I can, actually. But, seriously, how many trials do you think are decided by this sort of thing? You know, by jurors' nicotine addiction? It's a bit worrying, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Dan. "Especially when you factor in alcoholics, as well. I'm sure that juror called Linda - the one who works in the Silverhill dry-cleaners - has a bottle in her bag."
I wonder how the sex-addicts cope? Not by getting married, that's for sure. Though what time does the Wedding start?
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
Free At Last, Thank God Almighty, I'm Free (From Jury Service) At Last - With Apologies To *Martin Luther King.
God, it's been such a relief to see the outside world again over the weekend, and I'm even looking forward to being back at work - until I actually arrive, that is.
"I'm not talking to you," says Greg, as I walk into the office.
"Why?" I say. "I thought you'd be pleased to see me, after I've been locked up on jury service for so long."
"Huh. Frustrating the democratic will of the majority, you mean," says Greg, glaring at me as if I have committed a cardinal sin. "With all that Henry Fonda nonsense. And hadn't you forgotten something rather important, when you decided you didn't agree with most of the bloody jurors?"
I have absolutely no idea what Greg's talking about. It's almost as bad as trying to work out what planet some of those other jurors were from.
"I don't know what you mean," I say. "What have I forgotten?"
"That it was bloody Recess," says Greg. "Which you managed to completely avoid, leaving me to deal with The Boss's wilder extravagances all by myself."
"Ah," I say, as the man himself walks in. Surely he should be on his way back to London by now?
"Molly!" says Andrew. "Decided to pop in and see you quickly, before I catch my train. Done your duty as a responsible citizen, have you? And how is our judicial system working, when viewed from the sharp end?"
"Not as well as one might hope," I say - which could be to understate the case.
Honestly, where do the Courts Service find some of these bloody jurors? I've never seen a more disparate bunch of lunatics in my life - and that's saying something, given the people I deal with on a daily basis. Thank God we don't hang people any more, that's all I can say. (Not that most of the usual suspects would share that view.)
If I ever get arrested for anything - by which I mean falsely accused, of course - the first thing I am going to do is to instruct all my family members to borrow or steal luxury cars, and then to park them in conspicuous spots in the court car park every morning throughout my trial.
Josh looks and sounds too much like a criminal, though, so he'll have to be left at home, writing letters to the media and to my MP instead: explaining that a miscarriage of justice is about to take place, and begging them all to intercede on my behalf. (Though, on second thoughts, the letter to the MP might not help, if I wasn't at work to deal with it myself. I wouldn't want to entrust my freedom to Greg, not with the mood that he's in this morning.)
"But why would your family need luxury cars?" says Andrew. "I don't think I'm following your argument, Molly."
"No change there, then," says Greg, under his breath - or so he thinks.
The Boss glares at him, while I try my best to explain:
"Well," I say. "One of the trials I was on was of two guys who were accused of dealing cocaine, and I was pretty sure that both of them were guilty. So was one of the other jurors, but the rest weren't having any of it. They were just desperate to get a verdict and go home, especially the ones who were self-employed, or who worked in the private sector and were worrying about their job security."
"Not everyone has a boss as understanding as me," says Andrew.
This outrageous statement doesn't deserve a reply, so neither Greg nor I make any attempt at one. Instead, we both rise above the provocation - Greg by stuffing a large handful of Haribos into his mouth, and me by trying to recapture my train of thought, which is easier said than done, after the events of the last few weeks.
"One of the jurors - a big fat guy with a red face - kept yelling at me that I was making a fuss about nothing when I said that I wanted to be sure I was making the right decision," I say. "He said it was screamingly-obvious that one of the two defendants was guilty, and that the other was completely innocent."
"Well, maybe it was," says Greg. "If you saw Mr Beales come up in court, you'd know he'd done whatever he was accused of, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," I say. "But that's not the point. This case was about coke dealing, and one of the defendants was a bit of a chav from Easemount, whereas the other one was 'a nice middle-class boy' according to Mr Red Face - who said that he knew that the kid from Easemount was 'as guilty as sin", but that the other boy just wouldn't have done it."
"How?" say Greg and The Boss, simultaneously.
"Because he was so nicely-spoken, and from such a well-off home, that he wouldn't have needed to make money by dealing in cocaine," I say. "Apparently. And then Red Face said that he could prove this by the evidence he'd seen on the very first day of the trial."
"What evidence?" say Greg and Andrew, again in unison. I have been back at work for five minutes, and I have already restored harmony. I am so undervalued and underpaid.
"He said that he'd seen the boy's parents getting out of a 'very nice Mercedes' when he was arriving at the court that morning," I say.
"Oh," say Greg and Andrew - in a verdict so unanimous as to gladden any judge's heart. I bet Mr Justice Fraser-Smythe would have killed for a similar result. He certainly looked as if he wanted to kill me - on several occasions.
*Martin Luther King - Freedom speech here, complete with its reference to the Negro Spiritual, Free At Last. Proof, if any were needed, that neither Ed Miliband nor I are in Dr King's league, nor that of the Blind Boys of Alabama.
"I'm not talking to you," says Greg, as I walk into the office.
"Why?" I say. "I thought you'd be pleased to see me, after I've been locked up on jury service for so long."
"Huh. Frustrating the democratic will of the majority, you mean," says Greg, glaring at me as if I have committed a cardinal sin. "With all that Henry Fonda nonsense. And hadn't you forgotten something rather important, when you decided you didn't agree with most of the bloody jurors?"
I have absolutely no idea what Greg's talking about. It's almost as bad as trying to work out what planet some of those other jurors were from.
"I don't know what you mean," I say. "What have I forgotten?"
"That it was bloody Recess," says Greg. "Which you managed to completely avoid, leaving me to deal with The Boss's wilder extravagances all by myself."
"Ah," I say, as the man himself walks in. Surely he should be on his way back to London by now?
"Molly!" says Andrew. "Decided to pop in and see you quickly, before I catch my train. Done your duty as a responsible citizen, have you? And how is our judicial system working, when viewed from the sharp end?"
"Not as well as one might hope," I say - which could be to understate the case.
Honestly, where do the Courts Service find some of these bloody jurors? I've never seen a more disparate bunch of lunatics in my life - and that's saying something, given the people I deal with on a daily basis. Thank God we don't hang people any more, that's all I can say. (Not that most of the usual suspects would share that view.)
If I ever get arrested for anything - by which I mean falsely accused, of course - the first thing I am going to do is to instruct all my family members to borrow or steal luxury cars, and then to park them in conspicuous spots in the court car park every morning throughout my trial.
Josh looks and sounds too much like a criminal, though, so he'll have to be left at home, writing letters to the media and to my MP instead: explaining that a miscarriage of justice is about to take place, and begging them all to intercede on my behalf. (Though, on second thoughts, the letter to the MP might not help, if I wasn't at work to deal with it myself. I wouldn't want to entrust my freedom to Greg, not with the mood that he's in this morning.)
"But why would your family need luxury cars?" says Andrew. "I don't think I'm following your argument, Molly."
"No change there, then," says Greg, under his breath - or so he thinks.
The Boss glares at him, while I try my best to explain:
"Well," I say. "One of the trials I was on was of two guys who were accused of dealing cocaine, and I was pretty sure that both of them were guilty. So was one of the other jurors, but the rest weren't having any of it. They were just desperate to get a verdict and go home, especially the ones who were self-employed, or who worked in the private sector and were worrying about their job security."
"Not everyone has a boss as understanding as me," says Andrew.
This outrageous statement doesn't deserve a reply, so neither Greg nor I make any attempt at one. Instead, we both rise above the provocation - Greg by stuffing a large handful of Haribos into his mouth, and me by trying to recapture my train of thought, which is easier said than done, after the events of the last few weeks.
"One of the jurors - a big fat guy with a red face - kept yelling at me that I was making a fuss about nothing when I said that I wanted to be sure I was making the right decision," I say. "He said it was screamingly-obvious that one of the two defendants was guilty, and that the other was completely innocent."
"Well, maybe it was," says Greg. "If you saw Mr Beales come up in court, you'd know he'd done whatever he was accused of, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," I say. "But that's not the point. This case was about coke dealing, and one of the defendants was a bit of a chav from Easemount, whereas the other one was 'a nice middle-class boy' according to Mr Red Face - who said that he knew that the kid from Easemount was 'as guilty as sin", but that the other boy just wouldn't have done it."
"How?" say Greg and The Boss, simultaneously.
"Because he was so nicely-spoken, and from such a well-off home, that he wouldn't have needed to make money by dealing in cocaine," I say. "Apparently. And then Red Face said that he could prove this by the evidence he'd seen on the very first day of the trial."
"What evidence?" say Greg and Andrew, again in unison. I have been back at work for five minutes, and I have already restored harmony. I am so undervalued and underpaid.
"He said that he'd seen the boy's parents getting out of a 'very nice Mercedes' when he was arriving at the court that morning," I say.
"Oh," say Greg and Andrew - in a verdict so unanimous as to gladden any judge's heart. I bet Mr Justice Fraser-Smythe would have killed for a similar result. He certainly looked as if he wanted to kill me - on several occasions.
*Martin Luther King - Freedom speech here, complete with its reference to the Negro Spiritual, Free At Last. Proof, if any were needed, that neither Ed Miliband nor I are in Dr King's league, nor that of the Blind Boys of Alabama.
Thursday, 21 April 2011
Out Of Office Reply - Easter Office Closure, And Other Useful Information.
Thank you for contacting Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.
This office is now closed for the Easter break, and will re-open on Tuesday 26 April 2011, when (I am enormously relieved to report) Molly Bennett will also be returning to work after a long absence due to jury service.
I am sure that Molly will deal with your enquiry as quickly as she can, although she has asked me to point out that, due to the inconceivably vast number of issues raised while she has been away from the office, this may take some days to achieve.
However, Mr Sinclair would like me to assure you that Molly will be expected to work overtime to deal with the backlog of cases caused by her absence, and that he therefore expects service to return to its normal standard with almost immediate effect.
Molly herself is, as yet, unaware of this arrangement, but will, I am sure, be left with little option but to comply - particularly as I have no intention of helping her out. Not after she took so long to reach a verdict, while I had to deal with you lot single-handed. There is only so much that one man can be expected to cope with, after all.
Happy Easter, though if you could endeavour to stay out of trouble while celebrating it, I would be most grateful. This may involve exercising caution in terms of your alcohol intake; and your chocolate consumption (in case of incipient diabetes); and - in particular - with regard to the siting of any barbecues you may rashly decide to light too close to the boundary with your neighbour's garden.
Gregory Duke
Constituency Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair MP and unofficial secretary to Molly Bloody Bennett.
This office is now closed for the Easter break, and will re-open on Tuesday 26 April 2011, when (I am enormously relieved to report) Molly Bennett will also be returning to work after a long absence due to jury service.
I am sure that Molly will deal with your enquiry as quickly as she can, although she has asked me to point out that, due to the inconceivably vast number of issues raised while she has been away from the office, this may take some days to achieve.
However, Mr Sinclair would like me to assure you that Molly will be expected to work overtime to deal with the backlog of cases caused by her absence, and that he therefore expects service to return to its normal standard with almost immediate effect.
Molly herself is, as yet, unaware of this arrangement, but will, I am sure, be left with little option but to comply - particularly as I have no intention of helping her out. Not after she took so long to reach a verdict, while I had to deal with you lot single-handed. There is only so much that one man can be expected to cope with, after all.
Happy Easter, though if you could endeavour to stay out of trouble while celebrating it, I would be most grateful. This may involve exercising caution in terms of your alcohol intake; and your chocolate consumption (in case of incipient diabetes); and - in particular - with regard to the siting of any barbecues you may rashly decide to light too close to the boundary with your neighbour's garden.
Gregory Duke
Constituency Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair MP and unofficial secretary to Molly Bloody Bennett.
Monday, 28 March 2011
Out Of Office Reply - Molly Bennett, Office Of Andrew Sinclair MP.
Thank you for contacting Molly Bennett, Senior Constituency Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.
Molly will be out of the office on jury service as from Monday 28 March 2011, and is scheduled to return to work on Monday 11 April 2011.
During her absence, her colleague, Gregory Duke, has reluctantly agreed to help with your enquiry if - and only if - it is genuinely urgent, and does not involve any or all of the following: an inability to ensure that brides and grooms are not rendered headless in wedding photographs taken at the behest of a client; deliberate mistreatment of a horse used to pull a cart, and/or the mowing down of a Policeman carrying a speed gun, whether or not he or she is wearing a high-visibility jacket.
Mr Duke will also refuse to recommend that Mr Sinclair sign shotgun licence applications on behalf of any constituents whom he deems to be unstable. This includes (but is not restricted to) those of you who claim to see little green men in various locations, or who remain convinced that your neighbours are stealing your electricity.
Should any of the above scenarios sound at all familiar, Mr Duke suggests that you should start taking your prescribed medication again.
For those constituents with a tendency to suffer from stress-related hypertension, Mr Duke would remind you of his standard advice: that you take steps to avoid exposure to all newspapers and TV news. He places special emphasis upon avoiding The Daily Mail. (And The Economist, if you are a Labour policy-maker.)
Last, but not least, Mr Duke asks that all owners of fatmobiles check that they do not leave home to visit the seaside without having first charged their batteries, as he will be unable to spare the time to rescue stranded scooter-users while the office is short-staffed. He would also draw your attention (yet again) to the section of the Highway Code that clarifies the upper speed limits for scooting on pavements.
If, as a result of the application of the above criteria, Mr Duke should choose to designate your enquiry as non-urgent, please rest assured that Molly will deal with it as quickly as possible upon her return to work.
In the meantime, she wishes to make clear that, should you be minded to turn up at Northwick County Court in an attempt to contact her to complain about her colleague's classification system, she will not, under any circumstances, be able to discuss this with you. Not even during lunch-breaks or lulls in the court's proceedings.
She also wishes to emphasise that, should she recognise any defendant, she will immediately declare a conflict of interest to the court - thus ensuring that nothing can be gained from attempts either to bribe or intimidate members of her family or, indeed, most of her colleagues.
Molly will be out of the office on jury service as from Monday 28 March 2011, and is scheduled to return to work on Monday 11 April 2011.
During her absence, her colleague, Gregory Duke, has reluctantly agreed to help with your enquiry if - and only if - it is genuinely urgent, and does not involve any or all of the following: an inability to ensure that brides and grooms are not rendered headless in wedding photographs taken at the behest of a client; deliberate mistreatment of a horse used to pull a cart, and/or the mowing down of a Policeman carrying a speed gun, whether or not he or she is wearing a high-visibility jacket.
Mr Duke will also refuse to recommend that Mr Sinclair sign shotgun licence applications on behalf of any constituents whom he deems to be unstable. This includes (but is not restricted to) those of you who claim to see little green men in various locations, or who remain convinced that your neighbours are stealing your electricity.
Should any of the above scenarios sound at all familiar, Mr Duke suggests that you should start taking your prescribed medication again.
For those constituents with a tendency to suffer from stress-related hypertension, Mr Duke would remind you of his standard advice: that you take steps to avoid exposure to all newspapers and TV news. He places special emphasis upon avoiding The Daily Mail. (And The Economist, if you are a Labour policy-maker.)
Last, but not least, Mr Duke asks that all owners of fatmobiles check that they do not leave home to visit the seaside without having first charged their batteries, as he will be unable to spare the time to rescue stranded scooter-users while the office is short-staffed. He would also draw your attention (yet again) to the section of the Highway Code that clarifies the upper speed limits for scooting on pavements.
If, as a result of the application of the above criteria, Mr Duke should choose to designate your enquiry as non-urgent, please rest assured that Molly will deal with it as quickly as possible upon her return to work.
In the meantime, she wishes to make clear that, should you be minded to turn up at Northwick County Court in an attempt to contact her to complain about her colleague's classification system, she will not, under any circumstances, be able to discuss this with you. Not even during lunch-breaks or lulls in the court's proceedings.
She also wishes to emphasise that, should she recognise any defendant, she will immediately declare a conflict of interest to the court - thus ensuring that nothing can be gained from attempts either to bribe or intimidate members of her family or, indeed, most of her colleagues.
Saturday, 26 March 2011
How To Distinguish A Kindly Gesture From A Bribe, And Will Ed Remember To Mention Max?
Honestly, who'd have thought a bunch of flowers could cause so much trouble? I wish The Boss had never sent the damn things now.
Greg's still sulking when he texts me this morning, though I've got a horrible feeling he may have a point.
"Seeing as I am at least as valuable an employee as you are, Molly, and I didn't get a bloody bouquet" he says, "I can only conclude that The Boss must know about your job interview. Which you stupidly decided not to attend because it only takes a few manky flowers to make you feel guilty."
Not half as guilty as Max thinks I am, though. He wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the arse.
"So who the hell sent those?" he says, when he walks into our bedroom this morning, and notices the vase of flowers on the dressing table. (He might have spotted it last night if he hadn't opted to sleep on the sofa to avoid me moaning about his alcohol-related snoring again, but wine obviously has far more sex appeal than me.)
"The Boss did," I say. "As a token of his gratitude for all the hard work that I do."
"For God's sake," says Max. "I have met him, you know. Can't you do better than that?"
"If you don't believe me, I'll show you the card," I say - which I will, when I can find it.
In the meantime, changing the subject seems the best option by far. I do retain some political awareness, after all.
"I feel bad we're not going on today's march against the cuts," I say. "Don't you?"
"No," says Max. "We can't afford day trips - because I'm already being cut, remember? Today's my last day at work, but I bet Ed Miliband and the unions are only going to bang on about job cuts in the public sector, as per bloody usual."
I suppose I could try and argue that it's the public sector that keeps the private one going, but with the demise of the Audit Commission, I've got a funny feeling that this no longer applies to the furniture retail trade. Or not to its luxury end, anyway. I'm pretty sure that's why Max has lost his job.
Which I'd have done well to remember, before turning down my interview, on the strength of nothing more than a floral display and a pat on the back. What the hell is wrong with me?
My bullshit detector's on the blink - which isn't going to help with next week's jury service. I wouldn't trust me to decide what I want for lunch at the moment, let alone whether someone is guilty or innocent. Apart from Max, of course.
When he finally gets home from the pub tonight, he's bearing a bunch of flowers of his own - and an over-sized card in very bad taste.
"So did Ed mention me?" he says. "In his speech about the cuts, I mean?"
"I don't think so," I say. "Though he did refer to Martin Luther King. Anyway, never mind that - let's see your card."
Max passes it over, which just goes to show how drunk he is. There are the usual bad jokes, and messages saying how sorry his colleagues are to see him go, followed by "Best Wishes" and their names.
Trust bloody Bambi to buck the trend. She sends "lots and lots of luv." Along with an excess of kisses and hugs.
Greg's still sulking when he texts me this morning, though I've got a horrible feeling he may have a point.
"Seeing as I am at least as valuable an employee as you are, Molly, and I didn't get a bloody bouquet" he says, "I can only conclude that The Boss must know about your job interview. Which you stupidly decided not to attend because it only takes a few manky flowers to make you feel guilty."
Not half as guilty as Max thinks I am, though. He wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the arse.
"So who the hell sent those?" he says, when he walks into our bedroom this morning, and notices the vase of flowers on the dressing table. (He might have spotted it last night if he hadn't opted to sleep on the sofa to avoid me moaning about his alcohol-related snoring again, but wine obviously has far more sex appeal than me.)
"The Boss did," I say. "As a token of his gratitude for all the hard work that I do."
"For God's sake," says Max. "I have met him, you know. Can't you do better than that?"
"If you don't believe me, I'll show you the card," I say - which I will, when I can find it.
In the meantime, changing the subject seems the best option by far. I do retain some political awareness, after all.
"I feel bad we're not going on today's march against the cuts," I say. "Don't you?"
"No," says Max. "We can't afford day trips - because I'm already being cut, remember? Today's my last day at work, but I bet Ed Miliband and the unions are only going to bang on about job cuts in the public sector, as per bloody usual."
I suppose I could try and argue that it's the public sector that keeps the private one going, but with the demise of the Audit Commission, I've got a funny feeling that this no longer applies to the furniture retail trade. Or not to its luxury end, anyway. I'm pretty sure that's why Max has lost his job.
Which I'd have done well to remember, before turning down my interview, on the strength of nothing more than a floral display and a pat on the back. What the hell is wrong with me?
My bullshit detector's on the blink - which isn't going to help with next week's jury service. I wouldn't trust me to decide what I want for lunch at the moment, let alone whether someone is guilty or innocent. Apart from Max, of course.
When he finally gets home from the pub tonight, he's bearing a bunch of flowers of his own - and an over-sized card in very bad taste.
"So did Ed mention me?" he says. "In his speech about the cuts, I mean?"
"I don't think so," I say. "Though he did refer to Martin Luther King. Anyway, never mind that - let's see your card."
Max passes it over, which just goes to show how drunk he is. There are the usual bad jokes, and messages saying how sorry his colleagues are to see him go, followed by "Best Wishes" and their names.
Trust bloody Bambi to buck the trend. She sends "lots and lots of luv." Along with an excess of kisses and hugs.
Friday, 25 March 2011
The Hunchback Of Northwick Loses The Plot, And The Boss Rides Unexpectedly To The Rescue
"Something for you," says Max, when he sorts through the post this morning. There must be at least five days' worth in the pile.
"Oh, God," I say. "If it's another bill, just chuck it in the bin."
"Don't think it is," he says. "White envelope, not brown."
I take it from him, but haven't got time to open it, because I can't afford to be late for work again. Even if I haven't slept a wink all night.
Max's snoring was so bad, that I relocated to the sofa at about 4:00am, but then I was so busy worrying about how we're going to manage when his pay cheques stop arriving, that I couldn't get to sleep at all.
I'm making up for it this morning, though - seeing as I seem to be sleep-walking on my way to work. I'm probably lucky I don't get run over en route, although I'm not sure that I haven't been, when sirens start going off.
I pinch myself a few times to make sure I'm not dead, before I realise that there's a fire drill taking place. It takes ages before I can gain access to the office and, when I do, I find that Greg has been sitting at his desk throughout.
He's listening to music on his iPod and looks amazed when I pull his headphones off.
"What the hell are you playing at, Greg?" I say. "You'd have been burned to a crisp if it hadn't been a drill. And why are you already here?"
"I'm not playing at anything," he says. "Though I suppose I did have the music turned up a bit too loud. I think I've got a headache coming on. That might be a hangover, though - Pete Carew and I had a bit too much to drink last night, and I ended up sleeping on the couch in the Oprah Room."
Now why on earth didn't I think of doing that? Probably because my brain isn't functioning at the moment, and I can't keep anything in my head for more than thirty seconds at a time. I've even forgotten about the letter that arrived this morning - until Greg asks me if I've got any Paracetamol he can take.
I open my bag to look inside, and then I spot the envelope lying amidst all the other rubbish that I will insist on carrying around with me. It's no wonder I could give the Hunchback of Notre Dame a run for his money. Or a hobble, to be exact.
"What's that?" says Greg, watching me make a neat cut through the flap of the envelope, as well as right through the letter itself. Why can I never get that manoeuvre right?
"I don't know," I say, putting the two halves back together and taping them down. "Hang on. Oh, blimey. It's an interview for a job - that one at Northwick MultiMedia. And - oh, shit! - I've got to confirm if I'll be attending by the end of today."
Greg has just started trying to persuade me not to leave him to the mercy of the usual suspects when The Boss walks in, accompanied by Vicky - who's looking much more cheerful than she has for most of this week. I'd prefer not to think about what could be responsible for that.
"Ssh, Greg," I say. "Walls have ears. And so do interns. You can see them sticking out through her hair if you look. I'll tell you later when I get a chance."
It's such a manic day, though, that God knows when that'll happen. The Boss has so many radio and local TV interviews lined up that the Oprah Room's living up to its name for once, and we've also got a double surgery that's fully-booked.
I spend most of the morning running around like a headless chicken - rather than a monkey, please note - which probably accounts for why I forget to hide my letter from public view until after lunch. If Andrew or Vicky have spotted it, my "career" will soon be toast. Which is more than Mr Osborne can afford to eat.
Despite the similarity in the name, I'm not referring to our beloved Chancellor - though there'd be some justice if I was. Our Mr O has come to see The Boss for help in obtaining vouchers for use at Northwick's new food bank.
"I think you just have to take proof of receipt of benefit with you," I say. "Or a letter from your doctor or social worker, if you're unwell."
"I'm not getting any benefits at the moment," he says, looking down at his feet. "I've been depressed since I lost my job, but I've been turned down for sickness benefit and I'm still waiting for my appeal. My wife's working, though - but we can't manage on her wages, and there's nothing left for food once everything else has been paid."
The food bank. Oh, my God. It'll be Max and I queuing up there next, trying to get tins of soup to feed to Connie. If we can persuade someone to give us a voucher, that is. If not, what the hell are we going to do?
I'm getting a bit tearful now, what with worrying about whether The Boss might have seen my letter and imagining myself in Mr O's situation - but then I recall that I'm supposed to be emulating the Japanese, so I bite my lip and carry on making notes. Which look a bit like doodles, to be completely honest.
Mr Osborne's is the last appointment, thank God, so I go for a cigarette as soon as he leaves. Not that I'll be able to do that for much longer. I shall have to give up smoking as soon as Max is unemployed - and then I'm bound to become an axe-murderer in no time at all, or a constituent-killer, anyway.
I'm standing outside, making the most of the nicotine and sniffling like a very non-Japanese person, when I hear loud footsteps behind me.
"What on earth's the matter, Mol?" says The Boss, in the kindest voice I've heard in a while.
"Nothing," I say. "But thanks for asking. I've just got some ash in my eye."
"Good try," says Andrew, "but you don't fool me. Tell me everything - but hang on, I'll just light my pipe before you start."
You can tell I'm not myself because - for once - I do as he says. After I've finished, he gives me an awkward hug.
"You'll feel better after you've had next week off," he says.
"No, I won't," I say. "I'm on jury service - remember? I'll probably lose it completely and start demanding we bring back hanging and flogging."
Andrew gives me a worried look, and then pats me on the shoulder. Rather too hard, but I don't think it was intentional.
"Back in a minute," he says. "Just nipping to the shops. Hold the fort - and your nerve."
Which I do - until an hour later, when the intercom buzzes, and I'm the one who answers it.
"Delivery for a Mrs M. Bennett," says someone or other in a muffled voice.
Knowing my luck, it'll be a personalised bomb, though there's nothing for it but to go down and collect it anyway. The man says I have to sign for it myself.
"Here you are, Miss," he says, as he passes me a hand-tied posy of flowers. "These are for you."
The card says:
"Molly, thanks for all you do. I might be a miserable old bugger but that doesn't mean I'm an ungrateful one. A."
Now I'm bloody crying again. And I doubt I'll be going to that interview after all.
"Oh, God," I say. "If it's another bill, just chuck it in the bin."
"Don't think it is," he says. "White envelope, not brown."
I take it from him, but haven't got time to open it, because I can't afford to be late for work again. Even if I haven't slept a wink all night.
Max's snoring was so bad, that I relocated to the sofa at about 4:00am, but then I was so busy worrying about how we're going to manage when his pay cheques stop arriving, that I couldn't get to sleep at all.
I'm making up for it this morning, though - seeing as I seem to be sleep-walking on my way to work. I'm probably lucky I don't get run over en route, although I'm not sure that I haven't been, when sirens start going off.
I pinch myself a few times to make sure I'm not dead, before I realise that there's a fire drill taking place. It takes ages before I can gain access to the office and, when I do, I find that Greg has been sitting at his desk throughout.
He's listening to music on his iPod and looks amazed when I pull his headphones off.
"What the hell are you playing at, Greg?" I say. "You'd have been burned to a crisp if it hadn't been a drill. And why are you already here?"
"I'm not playing at anything," he says. "Though I suppose I did have the music turned up a bit too loud. I think I've got a headache coming on. That might be a hangover, though - Pete Carew and I had a bit too much to drink last night, and I ended up sleeping on the couch in the Oprah Room."
Now why on earth didn't I think of doing that? Probably because my brain isn't functioning at the moment, and I can't keep anything in my head for more than thirty seconds at a time. I've even forgotten about the letter that arrived this morning - until Greg asks me if I've got any Paracetamol he can take.
I open my bag to look inside, and then I spot the envelope lying amidst all the other rubbish that I will insist on carrying around with me. It's no wonder I could give the Hunchback of Notre Dame a run for his money. Or a hobble, to be exact.
"What's that?" says Greg, watching me make a neat cut through the flap of the envelope, as well as right through the letter itself. Why can I never get that manoeuvre right?
"I don't know," I say, putting the two halves back together and taping them down. "Hang on. Oh, blimey. It's an interview for a job - that one at Northwick MultiMedia. And - oh, shit! - I've got to confirm if I'll be attending by the end of today."
Greg has just started trying to persuade me not to leave him to the mercy of the usual suspects when The Boss walks in, accompanied by Vicky - who's looking much more cheerful than she has for most of this week. I'd prefer not to think about what could be responsible for that.
"Ssh, Greg," I say. "Walls have ears. And so do interns. You can see them sticking out through her hair if you look. I'll tell you later when I get a chance."
It's such a manic day, though, that God knows when that'll happen. The Boss has so many radio and local TV interviews lined up that the Oprah Room's living up to its name for once, and we've also got a double surgery that's fully-booked.
I spend most of the morning running around like a headless chicken - rather than a monkey, please note - which probably accounts for why I forget to hide my letter from public view until after lunch. If Andrew or Vicky have spotted it, my "career" will soon be toast. Which is more than Mr Osborne can afford to eat.
Despite the similarity in the name, I'm not referring to our beloved Chancellor - though there'd be some justice if I was. Our Mr O has come to see The Boss for help in obtaining vouchers for use at Northwick's new food bank.
"I think you just have to take proof of receipt of benefit with you," I say. "Or a letter from your doctor or social worker, if you're unwell."
"I'm not getting any benefits at the moment," he says, looking down at his feet. "I've been depressed since I lost my job, but I've been turned down for sickness benefit and I'm still waiting for my appeal. My wife's working, though - but we can't manage on her wages, and there's nothing left for food once everything else has been paid."
The food bank. Oh, my God. It'll be Max and I queuing up there next, trying to get tins of soup to feed to Connie. If we can persuade someone to give us a voucher, that is. If not, what the hell are we going to do?
I'm getting a bit tearful now, what with worrying about whether The Boss might have seen my letter and imagining myself in Mr O's situation - but then I recall that I'm supposed to be emulating the Japanese, so I bite my lip and carry on making notes. Which look a bit like doodles, to be completely honest.
Mr Osborne's is the last appointment, thank God, so I go for a cigarette as soon as he leaves. Not that I'll be able to do that for much longer. I shall have to give up smoking as soon as Max is unemployed - and then I'm bound to become an axe-murderer in no time at all, or a constituent-killer, anyway.
I'm standing outside, making the most of the nicotine and sniffling like a very non-Japanese person, when I hear loud footsteps behind me.
"What on earth's the matter, Mol?" says The Boss, in the kindest voice I've heard in a while.
"Nothing," I say. "But thanks for asking. I've just got some ash in my eye."
"Good try," says Andrew, "but you don't fool me. Tell me everything - but hang on, I'll just light my pipe before you start."
You can tell I'm not myself because - for once - I do as he says. After I've finished, he gives me an awkward hug.
"You'll feel better after you've had next week off," he says.
"No, I won't," I say. "I'm on jury service - remember? I'll probably lose it completely and start demanding we bring back hanging and flogging."
Andrew gives me a worried look, and then pats me on the shoulder. Rather too hard, but I don't think it was intentional.
"Back in a minute," he says. "Just nipping to the shops. Hold the fort - and your nerve."
Which I do - until an hour later, when the intercom buzzes, and I'm the one who answers it.
"Delivery for a Mrs M. Bennett," says someone or other in a muffled voice.
Knowing my luck, it'll be a personalised bomb, though there's nothing for it but to go down and collect it anyway. The man says I have to sign for it myself.
"Here you are, Miss," he says, as he passes me a hand-tied posy of flowers. "These are for you."
The card says:
"Molly, thanks for all you do. I might be a miserable old bugger but that doesn't mean I'm an ungrateful one. A."
Now I'm bloody crying again. And I doubt I'll be going to that interview after all.
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